


Worth The Wait

by telperion_15



Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) RPF
Genre: Developing Relationship, False Starts, Fluff and Angst, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Missed Opportunities, Pre-Relationship, Second Chances
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-21
Updated: 2012-04-22
Packaged: 2017-11-04 01:38:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,566
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/388228
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/telperion_15/pseuds/telperion_15
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It doesn’t take long for Michael to work out that there’s something about James.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to luninosity for the encouragement :)

It’s not instant (nothing so ridiculous as love at first sight – and besides, it’s not first sight anyway, they have met before), but it doesn’t take long for Michael to work out that there’s something about James.  
  
It hits him right around the time he realises that the first thing he does when he walks into a room is look around to see if James is in it. The subsequent pang of disappointment, on those occasions when James _isn’t_ there, is also something of a clue.  
  
However, he’s not quite sure what to do about it. He and James do spend a lot of time together, but that’s not unusual, given their roles in the movie, and the amount of effort they put into trying to get Charles and Erik’s relationship right even when the cameras aren’t rolling (“Come on, guys, it’s only a comic book movie,” Kevin says to them one day. “There’s no need to be so _method_ about it.”).  
  
And he knows that James likes him. He laughs at Michael’s jokes, brings him coffee during filming breaks, and seems sincerely interested in everything Michael has to say.  
  
But then again, James laughs at everyone’s jokes, will happily give up his own coffee if one of the costume girls looks at it longingly enough, and gives every appearance of being utterly fascinated by anyone and everyone he talks to. It’s easy for Michael to believe that he’s not any kind of exception.  
  
It’s okay, he tells himself. They’re friends – _good_ friends, he hopes – and that’s enough.  
  
Anything else would probably be a mistake, anyway.  
  
But all the same, he wonders…  
  
*~*~*~*~*  
  
“Hey, Michael.”  
  
Michael pauses in his pacing, turns to see James leaning towards him, forearms resting on the railing surrounding the podium in the centre of the Cerebro set. In the background, Matthew and Nicholas are talking quietly, going over some minor adjustments for the next take while the cameras are reset.  
  
“Yes?” He abandons the Erik headspace he’d been trying to retain (what is Erik _really_ feeling, he’s trying to figure out, watching Charles held in Cerebro’s grip?), and walks over to James, looking up at him in an uncommon reversal of their usual positions.  
  
He notices immediately that James looks a little uncertain about something. Nervous, almost.  
  
“Is it the scene? Because you were great. Well,” Michael smiles slightly, “as great as anyone can be with that ridiculous contraption sitting on their head.”  
  
James laughs a little – behind and above him, the Cerebro helmet hangs innocently in mid air, looking like a cross between an instrument of torture and a carnival headdress.  
  
Not that Michael is questioning the wisdom of design and props departments. Not at all.  
  
“No, it’s not the scene,” James replies. “And you were great too, by the way. I thought I had the monopoly on the wide-eyed stare, but it appears not.”  
  
“Well, I did learn from the best, after all…”  
  
“I wanted to ask you something,” James continues, completely ignoring the opportunity to crow over Michael, and that in itself alerts Michael that something serious might be going on.  
  
“James, what is it?” he demands, concern rising instantly.  
  
James seems to notice. “Oh, no! Don’t worry! Nothing bad. At least, I hope nothing bad. I just…well, I wondered if maybe you wanted to meet for drinks later.”  
  
Michael doesn’t immediately realise what he’s being asked. “Oh god, don’t tell me Kevin and Jason are organising another one of their ‘legendary’ parties,” he groans. “I know we’ve got a day off tomorrow, but we only get a few of those a month, and I do not plan to spend mine with a gigantic hangover. Especially not after the last time.”  
  
“No, I…that’s not what I meant. I, er…”  
  
James’ stuttering is also unusual, and Michael focuses again instantly. Nervous, he remembers. Not a normal state for James.  
  
“Wait, are you asking me if I…”  
  
“Want to meet for drinks later,” James repeats, almost despairingly. “Just…well, just you and me.”  
  
“Oh.”  
  
“Look, it was a stupid idea. Forget it. I’ll see if Nick and Jen want to come too. We could make a night of it, and never mind the hangovers…”  
  
Michael scrambles for words. He can almost see James retreating from him, and he’s not about to pass up this opportunity now that he’s finally realised what he’s being offered.  
  
“James, yes!”  
  
“What?”  
  
He dials down the vehemence a little. “Yes, I would like to meet for drinks later, just the two of us,” he says, as calmly as he can.  
  
“Really?” James’ uncertain look vanishes under a wide grin. “Great! Look, I know you’re done after we finish here, but I have another tiny scene to do, so don’t wait for me. How about we meet in the hotel bar, say around eight? Or we could make it later if you like…”  
  
James is gabbling, and Michael has to resist the urge to reach out and place his finger against his lips in order to shut him up. “James,” he says instead, firmly, and James stops talking instantly. “Eight will be fine.” He’s grinning himself now, too. “I’m looking forward to it already.”  
  
Before James can say anything else, however, Matthew is hurrying off the set, calling out that they’re ready to go again, and then they’re both scrambling to re-find Erik and Charles before the cameras start rolling.  
  
*~*~*~*~*  
  
Michael glances at his watch again, and then, before he can stop himself, glances towards the door too.  
  
James had sent him a text around 7:45 to tell him that filming had run a little longer than anticipated, but he was leaving right _now_ and would be there by 8:15 at the latest.  
  
It’s now 8:20.  
  
Michael knows that logically there are all sorts of reasons why James would be later than he’d said. Traffic, stopping to talk to someone as he was leaving the set (everyone always wants to talk to James, it seems), a rubbish ability to estimate journey times, traffic…no, wait, he’s already counted that one.  
  
The hands of his watch seem faintly mocking as they tick onwards towards 8:25, measuring exactly all the seconds that make up James’ continuing absence.  
  
He checks his phone again, in case he’s missed a second text (and never mind that it’s been lying on the bar right in front of him the entire time, taunting him with its silence).  
  
No text. Obviously. But just as he’s about to put it down again (and truthfully, just as he’s about to start wondering whether he’s been stood up), it rings.  
  
“James?” he demands of it, answering without even bothering to check the display, but knowing nonetheless who will be on the other end of the line. “Where are you? What’s happened?”  
  
“God, I’m so sorry,” James replies. His voice sounds faint, as if the connection isn’t very good. “Would you believe it, the bloody car’s broken down.”  
  
“Are you all right?” Michael asks.  
  
“Fine, don’t worry. The driver’s phoned the studio, but they can’t get a replacement out to us. So we’re stuck waiting for roadside assistance, and god knows how long that will be.”  
  
“I’ll wait.”  
  
“No, don’t do that…”  
  
“I’ll _wait_ ,” Michael repeats firmly.  
  
“Honestly, I have no idea how long it’s going to…”  
  
The line does dead so abruptly it takes Michael a second or two to work out what’s happened. Then he frantically dials James’ number, only to be greeted by a computerised voice telling him that the person he’s calling isn’t currently available and to please leave a message after the beep.  
  
“James, listen, you probably won’t get this message – your battery’s obviously dead or something – but if you do, I meant it when I said I’d wait. I’ll see you when I see you, okay?”  
  
As he hangs up, Michael starts doing some rapid calculations in his head. How long does roadside assistance normally take to turn up? Half an hour, maybe? Forty-five minutes, tops. Then another half an hour to sort the problem, if it’s not too serious, and maybe a further half-hour journey time on top of that – the studio isn’t that far away, after all.  
  
So, another hour and a half minimum to wait, then. Briefly, Michael contemplates decamping to his room for bit, and coming back down to the bar nearer the time that James might be turning up. But what if James arrives earlier? What if fixing the car doesn’t take that long and he gets here to find that Michael isn’t in the bar?  
  
No, he’d promised to wait and he will. As long as it takes.  
  
But as his watch ticks past 9:00, then 9:30, 10:00, and onwards towards 10:30, and there’s still no James, Michael starts to grow despondent, and then worried. What on earth could be taking so long? Is James all right? He tries calling James’ phone again a couple of times, but when the only thing he gets is the voicemail again, he hangs up both times without leaving any more messages. What would be the point, after all?  
  
“Sir?”  
  
Michael jumps, dragged out of his increasingly disappointed musings to find the bartender regarding him calmly over the bar.  
  
“I’m sorry, sir, but we’re closing up for the night now. I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”  
  
“But…”  
  
 _But James isn’t here yet_ , he wants to say, and then realises how ridiculous that is. So instead he just nods tiredly, swallows the last mouthful of his drink (only his second of the evening – there’s no way he was letting James turn up to find him drunk), and then drifts off his stool and towards the door.  
  
The rest of the hotel is practically deserted, and he makes it to his room without meeting anyone else. But once he’s inside he doesn’t know quite what to do with himself. It’s late and he’s tired, but he doesn’t feel like sleeping. Not until he knows what’s happened to James. He’s spent the whole evening telling himself very firmly that James is obviously okay, and that nothing terrible could have happened to him while he’s simply waiting in a broken down car, but still, he can’t go to bed without knowing that James is all right.  
  
He opts to take a shower, hoping that it will wake him up a bit, and when he emerges from the bathroom again, damp but not that much more awake, the phone on the nightstand is ringing.  
  
He dives for it, suddenly very awake indeed.  
  
“Hello?”  
  
“Michael?”  
  
 _Oh, thank god._  
  
“James, are you all right?”  
  
“I’m still fine, don’t worry.” James sounds a combination of tired, amused and incredibly frustrated. “I’m also back, finally.”  
  
“What happened?”  
  
“Turned out the car was a lot worse than we suspected. Roadside assistance had to tow us off to the nearest open garage, which wasn’t very near, and then we had wait for a taxi to come get us. And then it made sense to drop the driver off first before bringing me back. I’m so sorry for making you wait all that time for me.”  
  
“It doesn’t matter,” Michael tells him, almost truthfully.  
  
“But I’ve ruined our evening…”  
  
“It’s not your fault, these things happen.”  
  
“How about a rain-check?” James asks, sounding hopeful.  
  
“Definitely,” Michael replies. “There’ll be plenty more opportunities.”  
  
“Of course there will,” James agrees. “I’m still sorry, though.”  
  
“There’s always next time,” Michael reassures him, wondering if there’s some way he can psychically communicate down the phone line just how _much_ he wants there to be a next time.  
  
Whatever James is going to say in response, however, is smothered by a yawn loud enough that Michael has to hold the phone away from his ear for a second.  
  
“Oops, sorry about that,” James says ruefully.  
  
“Go to bed, James,” Michael says. “You must be knackered.”  
  
“I am rather tired…”  
  
“Get some sleep, then. And I’ll see you tomorrow.”  
  
“I think I will. Good-night.”  
  
“Good-night, James. Sleep well.”  
  
“You too.”  
  
*~*~*~*~*  
  
The ‘next time’ doesn’t materialise until nearly three weeks later, by which point they’ve all decamped to the English countryside to film the scenes at the Xavier mansion.  
  
Michael himself has a fair amount of involvement in said scenes, but not as much as James, since Charles is required to be in pretty much _every_ scene, encouraging and pushing the younger mutants, as well as Erik.  
  
But after over a week of dashing around the place in grey sweatsuits, pushing Caleb out of windows, and watching James race Nicholas up and down the gravel pathways that surround the house, Matthew finally takes pity and allows everyone a morning off before they get started on the interior shooting.  
  
“Hey.”  
  
James jogs up beside Michael as he makes his way towards the wardrobe trailer to divest himself of the latest sweatsuit (something he’s heartily glad of – comfortable they might be, but they call them sweatsuits for a reason).  
  
“Hey,” Michael returns, thinking longingly of slacks and black turtlenecks.  
  
“So, I was thinking…” James begins, sounding nervous and insinuating at the same time – it catches Michael’s attention immediately. “There aren’t many places to get a drink round here, but since we’re gentlemen of leisure tomorrow morning I figured maybe we could grab breakfast together?”  
  
Michael’s impressed – and also slightly concerned – at how quickly his brain takes the concept of breakfast and transforms it into something else.  
  
“Just breakfast, though,” James clarifies a second later (and Michael really hopes that’s regret he can hear in his voice). “I don’t know about you, but I’m completely drained after today. I feel like I could sleep for a week.”  
  
Michael knows exactly what he means. On the list of things he really, deeply wants right now, after getting rid of the sweatsuit comes a hot shower, followed by room service, followed by _sleep_. It hasn’t been a particularly physically demanding day, but the scene with the satellite dish is pretty emotionally charged for both Erik and Charles, and he and James had given it their all, much to Matthew’s delight.  
  
“But I thought it was about time I cashed in that rain-check,” James continues hopefully, a hint of a question about the words that makes Michael realise that once again he hasn’t actually made a very good job of _answering_ him.  
  
“Breakfast sounds great,” he says quickly, resisting the urge to jump and down and punch the air at getting this second chance after all.  
  
James gives him a brilliantly sunny smile, and offers, “Meet in the dining room around nine?”  
  
“Nine it is.” Really, they could probably both do with a bit more of a lie in, but their hotel stops serving at ten, and besides, Michael’s willing to give up a bit of sleep if it means he gets to have breakfast with James.  
  
A tiny voice in his head points out that he and James have actually had breakfast together twice this week already, when their schedules have coincided, but this is different. This is _breakfast_.  
  
“Great. Now, go on with you.” James gives him a little shove. “I can tell you’re dying to get out of that get-up.”  
  
“I am,” Michael tells him. “In fact,” he adds slyly, “I might just rip it off right here.”  
  
James sucks in a sharp breath, and then starts coughing when it gets stuck in his throat. Michael thumps him on the back a few times until he stops, and then says, “See you at breakfast,” before continuing on his way to the wardrobe trailer, grinning like a lunatic.  
  
*~*~*~*~*  
  
Michael’s beginning to think that James has been abducted by aliens, or kidnapped by over-enthusiastic fans, or even just vanished in a puff of smoke. He raises his hand and bangs on James’ door for a third time. “Come on, James,” he mutters. “Just open up, damn it.”  
  
Of course, right then, James does.  
  
When he’s done making sure he doesn’t fall in a heap at James’ feet (with some arm flailing that he’s sure an amateur tightrope walker would be proud of), he glares at James.  
  
“Don’t you ever answer your phone? I’ve tried to call you at least four times in the last half hour, and I’m sure Matthew has too.”  
  
“I was in the shower,” James replies, his brow furrowing.  
  
It’s right about then that Michael notices that James is wearing only a dressing gown (which appears to be about two sizes too big for him – do they not make dressing gowns that small? – and yet is still revealing an interesting amount of skin), and his hair is damp and curling in gravity-defying directions (which Michael kind of wants to reach out and run his fingers through).  
  
He’s enormously proud of himself for not reacting to either of these facts, and instead says, “I see you and I are going to have to have a discussion about how long a grown man needs to spend in the shower.”  
  
“Oi!” James protests. Then he frowns again. “What’s the matter, anyway? Why have you been calling me? Has something happened?”  
  
“Nothing like what you’re imagining,” Michael reassures him hastily, as the bewilderment on James’ face transforms into something like concern. “Everyone’s fine. It’s just,” he grimaces himself, “apparently something went wrong with the filming yesterday. All the footage from the ‘rage and serenity’ scene is no good.”  
  
James’ face falls even further. Michael can sympathise. They really had both given everything they had to that scene, and finding out they have to do it all again is in no way going to make Michael’s list of the top ten ways he wants to start his day.  
  
“So, no breakfast, then?” James says, reminding Michael of the other reason he currently wants to rain down curses on cameramen everywhere.  
  
“No, no breakfast,” he confirms. “Unless you count dried up bagels from the catering table as breakfast. In fact,” he checks his watch, “a car is coming to pick us up in approximately ten minutes, so you need to get dressed.”  
  
“I suppose that’s another rain-check, then?”  
  
“I suppose it is,” Michael agrees. Just for a moment, he lets his eyes drop to the triangle of skin exposed by the collar of James’ dressing gown and imagines…things. Then he drags his gaze back up hastily to meet James’ faintly amused expression.  
  
“Next time,” he promises.  
  
James nods. “Next time.”  
  
*~*~*~*~*  
  
Of course, after that things go a little crazy. They move from England to the Georgia coast in the good old U-S-of-A, and if Michael thought the whole ‘rage and serenity’ thing was intense, it’s nothing compared to kneeling on a windswept beach in late October, while James lies in his arms pretending to be in huge amounts of pain, and Michael pretends to be a complete bastard.  
  
The days merge into a blur of sand and angst and being slightly in awe of the desperation in James’ blue eyes as Charles tries to convince Erik to do what’s right, and all any of them can think about when they stop is snatching a precious few hours of sleep before they have to start psyching themselves up to begin again.  
  
And then after that the schedule demands they go their separate ways for a little while – Michael’s off on Erik’s Nazi-hunting quest, while James films Oxford interiors and tries to persuade the CIA of the existence of mutants – until they finally meet up again in a giant tank full of water, and James is trying to prevent Michael from drowning himself in the name of a good performance.  
  
Then they’re on to the mutant recruiting ‘road trip’, as James quickly takes to calling it, and Michael vaguely hopes that opportunities might afford themselves somewhere in the midst of visiting strip clubs, prisons and aquariums.  
  
However, he hasn’t taken into account that it’s now late November, and Matthew’s realisation that the end of principal filming is fast approaching, and suddenly they’re all working harder than ever, and any opportunities there might have been are steamrollered by early morning calls, frantic schedules, and a hitherto unsuspected directorial slave-driving streak.  
  
And then, in no more time than it takes to blink (or so it feels to Michael, anyway), it’s the wrap party, Christmas is just around the corner, and somehow they’ve run out of time.  
  
“Drink?” says a voice.  
  
Michael’s managed to find a relatively quiet spot, tucked away at the end of the bar, from where he can watch proceedings and hopefully avoid being ‘persuaded’ into trying one of the luridly coloured drinks that Lucas and Caleb (aided and abetted by Kevin and Jason, it appears) are touting.  
  
He’d lost track of James a while back – James is a natural partygoer, capable of connecting with anyone and everyone in a crowd – but it appears that James hadn’t lost track of him.  
  
“Thanks,” he says, not realising until after he’s accepted that James’ hands are, in fact, empty. “Er…”  
  
“No, I meant,” James raises his eyebrows significantly, “‘drink’? I thought we could go somewhere a bit quieter, you know?”  
  
“Oh.” Hope bubbles up from somewhere – maybe it’s not too late after all. “Yes, okay.”  
  
“Great.” James grins. “Oh, wait, let me just go and have a quick word with Rose, and then I’ll grab a couple of drinks on the way back and we can go and hide from all the mayhem.”  
  
Michael nods, and watches as James scoots off in Rose’s direction, smiling a small smile to himself.  
  
“Hi, Michael.” Matthew plants himself on the stool next to Michael’s, and takes a mouthful of his drink, which happily appears to be of a normal colour. “We made it through, huh? Didn’t think we would, on a couple of occasions.”  
  
Michael smirks. “And whose fault it that? Is it really so important that Charles and Erik close their car doors in unison that we had to do eighteen takes of it?”  
  
“That was a very important artistic decision, I’ll have you know,” Matthew tells him loftily. “Although as a matter of fact, I still don’t think you got it quite right. There may have to be pick-ups.”  
  
Michael flicks a peanut at him, and is quite impressed with himself when it hits Matthew on the nose.  
  
They chat for a few more minutes, until it occurs to Michael to wonder what’s become of James. He peers across the bar, and sees that James is now in the company of Lucas and Caleb, and appears to have succumbed to the lure of some form of bright green liquid.  
  
As Michael watches, James takes a sip, pulls a face, and then starts laughing delightedly at something, looking happy and at ease, and free of the weight of Charles and Erik and the film, that had settled over them all these past few weeks. He’s not showing any signs of leaving his new drinking companions any time soon.  
  
Michael smiles to himself again, sighs quietly, and turns to Matthew, who hasn’t noticed his momentary distraction and is still talking about something Michael’s now lost track of.  
  
“Listen,” he interrupts, “I think I’m going to call it a night. I’ve got an early flight back to Ireland tomorrow – my mother will kill me if I don’t show up for Christmas after being practically AWOL for nearly four months. If James comes back, tell him where I’ve gone, and that I said to have a good Christmas, yeah?”  
  
Matthew looks confused for a moment, as only a slightly tipsy person at a party can, and then nods. “Sure. You have a good Christmas too, though. And thanks for everything, Michael. You did a great job with this.”  
  
They shake hands, and Michael makes his way towards the exit. He glances back over his shoulder once, his eyes alighting instantly on a still laughing James, and then heads on out.  
  
*~*~*~*~*  
  
“You didn’t think you were going to get away with it, did you?”  
  
Michael startles minutely, and turns to face a James who is somehow managing to look very serious and very amused at the same time.  
  
“Get away with what?” he asks, as innocently as he can.  
  
James shoots him a looks that says he’s fooling no one and he knows it, and answers, “Leaving without saying goodbye.”  
  
“It’s not like we’re never going to see each other again,” Michael points out lightly.  
  
James gives him another look, this one somewhat more indecipherable, and then sighs. “Look, I’m sorry about last night. I was coming back, honestly. It’s just…well, it turns out that Lucas and Caleb are very difficult to say no to.”  
  
“It’s fine. Really,” Michael replies. “I won’t hold it against you. Much.” He forces a grin to take the sting out of the final word.  
  
James sighs again. “Look, Michael, I _am_ sorry, but maybe it just…wasn’t meant to be, you know?” He smiles crookedly. “I mean, it’s not like the universe was going out of its way to give us a break, was it?”  
  
“I suppose not.”  
  
“But we’re friends, right? I’d like to think we were, anyway.”  
  
“Of course we are!” Michael’s slightly shocked by the fact that James seems uncertain on this point.  
  
“Good. Great, in fact. Because I don’t think I’ve ever had such a good time on a film as I’ve had on this one, and I suspect that’s largely down to you.”  
  
 _Likewise_ , Michael thinks but doesn’t say, because he’s fairly sure the word will carry more meaning that James obviously wants to hear right now. So instead he just nods, and summons up another smile.  
  
There’s a silent moment that’s not _exactly_ uncomfortable, and then James asks, “So, you waiting for a ride to the airport? What time’s the car supposed to be here?”  
  
“Any minute now,” Michael tells him. “So I suppose I should say goodbye, since you came all the way down here to hear it.” He sticks out a hand. “Bye, James.”  
  
James grasps his hand, but then grins, rolls his eyes, and pulls Michael towards him. “Oh, come here, you great idiot.”  
  
And Michael suddenly finds himself wrapped around James in a hug that it would be so easy to let become something more. James’ hair is tickling his nose, and he can feel James’ breath on the side of his neck, and it’s only with a heroic effort that he makes himself disengage when he feels James start to do the same.  
  
The sound of someone clearing their throat interrupts another moment in which neither of them appears to have anything to say, and Michael realises that his car has arrived and the driver is waiting a few feet away to take his bags.  
  
“Well, bye, then,” James says, and gives him a little wave.  
  
“Bye,” Michael repeats. He nods quickly to James, and this time he doesn’t look back as he slides into the car and lets it carry him away.


	2. Chapter 2

  
Months pass, and Michael tries not to think about James too much.  
  
It’s surprisingly easy, at first. Christmas goes by in a whirl of family and noise and celebration, and in January he’s straight on to filming _Shame_ , and Brandon and his issues are far to preoccupying to allow space for much else in Michael’s head.  
  
But when he’s finally able to shake Brandon off, that’s when the problems start. When he’s called back to _First Class_ to shoot some pick-ups and do some ADR. When, even though he doesn’t see James in person, he’s forced to confront his image, projected on to a screen in front of him as Michael struggles to match his words to the movement of Erik’s lips, and not allow himself to become distracted by Charles’ – _James’_ – lips instead.  
  
It’s right around then that the text messages and email start, as well – chatty, friendly, and occasionally mocking when James has obviously been doing work of his own on _X-Men_ ( _Loving the headgear. Vogue magazine here we come_ , and later, when James has obviously been sneaking peeks at bits of footage he’s not supposed to see, _I’ve got an idea for a new TV show – ‘Pimp My Helmet’ – what do you think? Because magenta really suits you!_ ).  
  
Michael can’t help smiling, even at the mockery, because even though he still wonders what might have been, James is right, they _are_ still friends, and Michael misses his friend even as he misses something else at the same time.  
  
However, the reunion sneaks up on him somewhat. It’s not like he’d forgotten about the press junkets and publicity tour or anything – especially given what it means – but by the time it rolls around he’s started on _Prometheus_ , and although he’d never admit it to anyone, Michael had seized on the role of David rather eagerly, grateful to be able to immerse himself in a character who lacks some of the more human traits. Like emotions, for example.  
  
But of course his schedule had been organised to allow him time to do the required press for _First Class_ , and before he knows it he’s having to put David on ice and find Michael again.  
  
Michael who is suddenly very aware that tomorrow he’ll be seeing James for the first time since December.  
  
He’s not sure whether he’s nervous or excited or just plain terrified.  
  
He settles on a mixture of all three, and allows himself to feel them all right up until he’s standing outside the events suite of the hotel where the first of several junkets is being held – a whirlwind of interviews with everyone from MTV to websites and shows he’s never even heard of – at which point he ruthlessly squashes them all down and tells himself to man up as his agent leads him into the suite.  
  
He doesn’t see James at first, although he knows he’s here somewhere, a member of the welcoming committee having informed him that “Mr McAvoy arrived about ten minutes ago, Mr Fassbender,” as they’d shepherded him along.  
  
But then a crewmember moves aside, and Michael isn’t prepared in the _slightest_ for the feeling that crackles down his spine and settles somewhere low in his abdomen, warm and molten and tingling.  
  
James doesn’t see him at first, either. He’s turned away slightly, hands shoved in his pockets as he apparently contemplates the screen with the large X on it that will obviously be the backdrop to their interviews.  
  
But then, almost as if he can sense Michael staring at him, he turns, and the grin that splits his face when he spots Michael is nearly blinding.  
  
Michael is helpless to do anything other than grin back, and at James’ little wave he finds himself crossing the room towards him.  
  
“Hi,” he says, as soon as they’re within speaking distance.  
  
“Hi yourself,” James replies.  
  
There’s the briefest of hesitations, and then James steps forward and hugs him, and Michael is transported right back to the last time they saw each other, months ago.  
  
It turns out that this hasn’t got any easier in the interim, and Michael suddenly realises, with complete clarity, just how doomed he is.  
  
“How have you been?” James asks, when they part a few seconds later (and it’s absolutely Michael’s imagination that has him wondering whether it wasn’t _James_ who was reluctant to let go, this time).  
  
“Good,” Michael says. “ _Busy_.”  
  
“God, tell me about it!” James laughs. Then his eyes dart upwards and he smirks. “I see your taste in headgear hasn’t improved.”  
  
Michael resists the urge to self-consciously touch the hat on his head. “Thanks,” he replies dryly.  
  
“What’s that in aid of, anyway?” But James doesn’t wait for an answer, instead reaching up to pluck the hat from Michael’s head before Michael can stop him. “Oh my god!”  
  
James is laughing again, and Michael wants to scowl at him, but for some reason his face won’t obey him. The blond hair suits David, and all the Aryan connotations of perfection that accompany an android character, but he doesn’t think it particularly suits _him_ , and James would appear to agree.  
  
“Oh, shut up,” he says, good-naturedly rolling his eyes. He snatches the hat back from James and settles it atop his head again. “Don’t tell me you’ve never suffered for your art.”  
  
“I don’t think I’ve ever suffered quite that much,” James jokes.  
  
They settle themselves into the chairs in front of the _X-Men_ backdrop and continue chatting while cameras and other paraphernalia are set up and tested around them, swapping stories about what they’ve been up to since Christmas, asking after family, and whether they’ve been in touch with any of their fellow ‘mutants’ since filming ended (turns out James has been in fairly frequent contact with Rose – Michael firmly pushes aside the jealousy that flares – and they’ve both been subjected to Kevin’s ‘hilarious’ emails, which Michael is happy to discover that James has come to dread opening nearly as much as he has).  
  
“Kevin’s around here somewhere, actually,” James says. “With January. I think they’re the other hapless victims about to be thrown to the sharks of the mass media.”  
  
“Let’s just hope January can keep him in line,” Michael replies. “I can only imagine what Kevin can be like in interviews.”  
  
“I’m sure she’ll manage. But what about you? Am I going to have to keep _you_ in line?”  
  
“Oi,” Michael protests. “If anything, it’ll be the other way round. You’re a menace when you get going.”  
  
“But that’s what makes it fun,” James says, pasting an innocent expression on his face. “I mean, we are going to be stuck answering the same questions over and over today – might as well have a laugh if we can.”  
  
Michael sighs, knowing that James is most likely right.  
  
James chuckles. “So, Mr Fassbender,” he says, miming holding a microphone out, “if you could have any mutant superpower, what would it be?”  
  
Michael groans, and drops his face into his hands. “Give me strength,” he mutters. “How long do you think it’ll take them to ask that one?”  
  
James is silent for long enough that Michael looks up again, and finds that James appears to be deep in thought.  
  
“James?”  
  
“Second question,” James pronounces.  
  
“What?”  
  
“I bet you it’s the second question we get asked. Right after ‘Did you enjoy working on _X-Men: First Class_?” James gives him a sly look, and leans closer – Michael fights the impulse to mirror the movement. “Care to make a wager?”  
  
Michael thinks for a moment, trying not get distracted by blue eyes less than a foot away, or the faint warmth of James’ breath against his skin. “I reckon third question,” he says eventually. “Give them a bit of time to work up to it.”  
  
James shakes his head, but he’s grinning. “You’re on.”  
  
“Guys?”  
  
They both look up to find a producer smiling down at them. “We’re ready to go if you are?”  
  
Michael nods, as James says, “Fire away,” and the producer smiles again and steps away as their first interviewer – a boy young enough to make Michael feel _old_ – sits down opposite them, and the cameras start rolling.  
  
Preliminaries and pleasantries out of the way, the interviewer – Aaron from some teen show Michael forgets the name of instantly – fixes them with a disturbingly direct look, and asks, “So, did you both enjoy working on _X-Men: First Class_?”  
  
Michael can sense the smug look on James’ face, although he resolutely doesn’t look at him. “Definitely,” he says. “It’s nice every now again to do something _fun_ – not too serious or heavy. Although obviously the film definitely has its serious aspects.”  
  
“And what about working together? Did you enjoy that?”  
  
Now it’s Michael’s turn to feel smug – _not_ the second question after all. He can’t resist turning slightly this time, flashing James a triumphant grin as James starts to answer the question, betraying not a hint of disappointment.  
  
“Well, I’m not saying it wasn’t a bit of a trial at times,” James says, smiling and winking to take the sting out of the words, although Michael knows the sharp dig of revenge when he feels it, “but I think I can honestly say that I’ve never enjoyed working with anyone so much as I enjoyed working with Michael. Seriously, I couldn’t have asked for a better co-star.”  
  
Michael blinks and stares.  
  
“He works hard – harder than me, a lot of the time – he’s dedicated, and he really wants to give his all to the part. Which made me want to give my all too. And he’s just a really fun guy to be around. I’m not sure I’ve ever laughed so much on a movie set. I really don’t think this film would have been half as good without him, and I feel like I’ve made a friend for life.”  
  
Michael’s aware he’s gaping slightly, and he’s fairly sure that Aaron wasn’t expecting quite such a fervent answer either, despite the fact that they’re all aware that these interviews are all about putting a positive spin on the movies and their experiences making it.  
  
“Okay…wow,” Aaron says, obviously trying to get things back on track. “Sounds like you’re quite the co-star to have, Michael. Now, moving on to something a little more light-hearted, and something I’m sure a lot of our viewers will want to know – if you could have any mutant superpower, what would it be?”  
  
It appears that Michael’s won the bet, but he really couldn’t care less. He barely hears the answer James gives to the expected question, and it’s not until he becomes aware of the silence surrounding him that he realises that Aaron’s watching him expectantly, while James has fixed him with an amused look.  
  
With an effort, he pulls himself together. “Right, sorry, superpowers. Let me see…”  
  
*~*~*~*~*  
  
Several hours later, they emerge from the suite, slightly glassy-eyed, heads spinning from all the questions, and the effort of keeping their answers fresh and interested-sounding.  
  
It had taken Michael most of the rest of that first interview to really get his act together, and he’s fairly sure that Aaron’s show is going to be focusing their broadcast more on James than him. But James’ praise of him had blindsided him a little, all the more so for being quite obviously sincere, and he hadn’t been quite sure how to react.  
  
And all that enthusiasm – about Michael and about everything else – hadn’t dimmed one iota throughout the rest of the interviews, and Michael was feeling a little punch-drunk from the intensity of it.  
  
He wasn’t sure how James managed to keep it up. Predictably enough, the questions from every interviewer had been more or less the same, and naturally the superpowers question had come up every time – except once, when the interviewer had obviously been instructed to conduct a more ‘intelligent’ interview, resulting in both Michael and James trying to hold in their giggles as they were asked serious questions about their character motivation and what messages the film might be imparting that could be relevant to the modern world.  
  
But James had managed to sound genuinely enthusiastic, even answering _those_ questions, and Michael had done his damnedest to keep up, infected by James’ good nature and friendliness, and determined to return the compliments that James kept giving him.  
  
“Oh, thank god that’s over,” James says. “I swear, if I’d had to come up with yet another interesting superpower to possess…”  
  
“You would have done it, and made it sound like the thing you wanted most in the world,” Michael finishes for him.  
  
“Well, I don’t know about that…” James could almost be blushing, and Michael is powerless to stop the fond expression that he knows is crossing his face.  
  
“Don’t sell yourself short,” he tells James. “You’re an interviewer’s wet dream, you know that.”  
  
James grimaces. “Oh, thanks very much.”  
  
Michael laughs, and when James laughs too, decides _oh, the hell with it_. He’s been trying desperately over the last few hours not to read too much into the nice things James has been saying about him, reminding himself that James only sees him as a very good friend, and nothing more. But right now he can only remember how much James’ words had warmed him, and the way James had seemed to catch his eye every time, and give him a little smile – almost private, those moments felt, just between the two of them.  
  
And knows that he’ll never forgive himself if he doesn’t give it one last shot.  
  
“So,” he says, throwing caution to the wind, “it’s a bit early, but do you want to grab drink?” He takes a deep breath. “After all, we never did get to have one before, did we?”  
  
James stares at him, and for a horrible moment Michael thinks that he has read the situation entirely wrongly, after all.  
  
“Are you actually kidding me?” James says. He steps closer to Michael, so that his next words, spoken in a low voice, are audible only to him. “What I _want_ is for you to take me up to your room right now and fuck me into the mattress.”  
  
And now it’s Michael’s turn to stare. Apparently he did read the situation wrongly, he thinks to himself inanely, only in not quite the way he’d thought.  
  
“Oh,” James says. “Sorry, I…I thought I’d been obvious about it, but it seems not…”, and Michael realises he’s been silent for too long (a habit he _really_ needs to break, especially around James).  
  
Just as James starts to take a step backwards again, Michael’s hand shoots out and captures James’ wrist. “Don’t you _dare_ ,” he says, barely recognising his own voice.  
  
And then he pulls James towards the lifts.  
  
*~*~*~*~*  
  
They aren’t the only occupants of their lift, which Michael supposes is a good thing, otherwise he’d be ripping James’ clothes off right now, requests relating to mattresses and being fucked into them notwithstanding.  
  
He’s not too sure whether their companions have realised who they are, but they definitely know something’s up, if the sideways looks they keep shooting Michael and James are anything to go by. Michael figures it’s probably got something to do with the way he and James are standing closer than they probably should be, and probably also the flush in James’ cheeks and the sparkle in his eyes that’s testing Michael’s resolve, their audience be damned.  
  
Happily, everyone else gets out on the ninth floor, and the lift doors have barely slid shut before Michael is crowding James into a corner, hands coming up to bracket James’ shoulders as James bites his lip and stares up at him.  
  
“James,” he says (and he should probably be embarrassed by how desperate he sounds), “do you have _any_ idea how long…”  
  
“ _Eleventh floor_ ,” announces the lift, not sounding at all bothered about interrupting them, and Michael realises that this is _their_ floor.  
  
“I believe I mentioned something about a bed?” James murmurs cheekily. “I do hope your room isn’t too far away…”  
  
Fortunately for them both, it’s not, and one corner and one stretch of corridor later Michael’s fumbling his key-card into the slot and then propelling James into the room ahead of him.  
  
He kicks the door shut behind him and turns just as James grabs him, pulling him in until he’s right in James’ space again, his taller frame looming over James in a way James seems to like, if his blown pupils are any indication.  
  
“Oh _fuck_ ,” he says brokenly, and _finally_ gives in to his impulses, bowing his head as James tilts his up and capturing James’ mouth with his own.  
  
Michael’s been fantasising about this for so long that he’s long ago come to the conclusion that reality was never going to match up. Which means that reality is now a point ahead, because this is far, _far_ better than any fantasy.  
  
He bites down softly on James’ lower lip, as he’s wanted to do every time he watched James bite into it himself, when he was nervous or thoughtful or distracted, and when James gasps in response the takes the opportunity to claim James’ mouth completely.  
  
He’s not entirely sure which of them moans, at that, and then he decides that it doesn’t really matter, and that he’d be perfectly happy to standing here kissing James for as long as James will let him.  
  
“Oh god,” James mutters between kisses, “we should have done this _ages_ ago…”  
  
The words are akin to having a bucket of cold water tipped over his head. James looks confused as Michael abruptly stops, and steps back out of James’ embrace so quickly that he almost stumbles.  
  
“Michael, what is it?”  
  
“Why didn’t we?” Michael asks bluntly, ignoring the voice in his head that’s shrieking at him to stop being such an idiot and just take what he’s being given. “And what happened to ‘it just wasn’t meant to be’?” Suddenly he’s wondering just why James is here. Michael knows he’s been pining for James (and he can admit that to himself now, at least) for months, but has James been doing the same? He didn’t seem all that desperate for this before, so why is he now? What, exactly, are they doing here?  
  
James isn’t looking at him any more. In fact, he seems to be finding the carpet utterly fascinating.  
  
“Can we just pretend I never said that?” James says quietly. “I made a mistake that day – one of the biggest ones of my life, as it turns out. Which I realised approximately five seconds after you’d left.”  
  
“What?”  
  
“I guess I just freaked out a little, that’s all.” James glances up quickly, and Michael catches a glimpse of blue under long eyelashes, but then James is gazing fixedly at the carpet again. “I suppose I really felt like if it _was_ meant to be, it would have been easier. And then you were gone, and I suddenly realised that I should have done more. That actually the things that are worth having are also the things worth fighting for.”  
  
“Why didn’t you tell me?” Michael can feel hope kindling again, somewhere in his chest, but he still doesn’t quite understand.  
  
“Like I said, you’d gone.”  
  
“Telephones, James. Email. I know you know how to use them.”  
  
“Oh, well…” James’ voice is even quieter now. “I was worried that…that I’d driven you away completely. That you would have given up on me like I’d given up on you. I didn’t know if you’d be able to forgive me for, well, stringing you along, basically.”  
  
“ _James._ ”  
  
James looks up properly at that, at the vehemence in Michael’s voice.  
  
“I _never_ thought you were stringing me along, for god’s sake! It was neither of our faults that things didn’t work out the last time. And yes, okay, I was disappointed when you said…what you said, the last time we saw each other – more than disappointed, as you’ve probably worked out by now – but it was your decision, and I respected that.”  
  
“Oh.”  
  
Michael moves back into James’ space again, hands sliding up James’ arms until they rest on his shoulders, and his thumbs are rubbing against the base of James’ throat. “Didn’t stop me wishing and hoping that you’d change your mind, though,” he adds softly.  
  
“I’m sorry,” James whispers back. “And look, if you want to do things properly – drinks, dinner – like we were planning to before, that’s fine. I didn’t mean to push you into this. I don’t want you to think that I’m only…”  
  
Michael cuts him off with a kiss, and when they part again James is satisfyingly speechless.  
  
“You really _don’t_ have any idea how long I’ve been waiting for this, do you?” Michael says. He bends closer, so he can whisper straight into James’ ear. “Please don’t make me wait any longer.”  
  
James outright _whimpers_ at that, and Michael abruptly finds himself being pushed backwards, towards the bed that James had demanded earlier, and is apparently demanding again now.  
  
The backs of his knees hit the edge of the mattress and he sits down suddenly, James instantly climbing into his lap, straddling his thighs in such a way as to make him very aware of precisely how much they both want this. There’s a momentary pause, during which they both just look at each other, and then James removes Michael’s hat (which against all odds has managed to remain perched on his head the entire time) and tosses it aside so he can slide his hands into Michael’s hair, fingers tangling in the strands and pressing against Michael’s scalp (and perhaps James isn’t as averse to the blond as he made out, after all).  
  
And then they’re kissing again, wet and deep and filthy, and at the same time James is rocking up against him, whether consciously or not Michael doesn’t know.  
  
What he _does_ know is that if James keeps at it this is going to be over a lot quicker than either of them would like.  
  
“James…wait… _James_ …”  
  
But James isn’t listening to him, and Michael almost – _almost_ – lets things continue as they are.  
  
But he wants more than this, and since James isn’t hearing him, he decides that he’s going to have to let his actions speak for him.  
  
James makes a noise that he’ll later deny was a squeak when Michael moves suddenly, twisting and lifting so that he can dump James on his back on the bed, and straddle him in turn.  
  
“Much better,” he says decidedly, and James looks up at him with wide eyes for a moment before his mouth curls into a lazy, concurring grin that Michael just has to lean in and kiss.  
  
He feels James’ hands slide along his shirt front, fumbling at the buttons there, and lets James have his fun until all the buttons are undone, at which point he sits back, his weight on James’ thighs, and shrugs the shirt off, rather enjoying the way James’ eyes skate across his torso, clearly admiring.  
  
“James.” The verbal nudge is accompanied by a pluck at the material of James sweater, and James obliges by grabbing the hem of it and tugging it off over his head, wriggling his shoulders as he does so.  
  
Michael’s gaze isn’t any less admiring than James’ had been, drinking in the smooth, pale skin of James’ chest and stomach until James wriggles again, drawing Michael’s eyes up to his face.  
  
“Not that I’m not enjoying the view – or the mutual appreciation society – but, well…” James arches an eyebrow in clear invitation, and Michael remembers what it is they’re _supposed_ to be doing.  
  
The resulting flurry of movement probably isn’t the most graceful disrobing either of them have ever achieved, but Michael isn’t concerned with _graceful_ right now.  
  
His attention is drawn instantly to James’ cock, which is clearly telegraphing its approval of the situation in general, and when he curls his hand around it James’ hisses and arches up a little into his touch.  
  
“God, yes…need you…oh fuck!”  
  
Michael frowns – the last two words had sounded more like panic than arousal, and he lets go immediately.  
  
“James, what is it?”  
  
But James is flushing, and almost looks like he’s trying not to start giggling. “Sorry, that was slightly out of proportion. But I just thought – you do have…supplies, right?”  
  
It takes Michael a couple of seconds to catch his meaning, but when he does he can’t help smiling, even though he feels slightly embarrassed as he admits, “Yes, yes, I do.”  
  
“Thank god for that!” James exclaims, still a little melodramatically. “Because if we’d had to stop so one of us could go back downstairs and buy some I might just have expired right here!”  
  
Michael laughs at that, and gives James a quick kiss. “Well we couldn’t have that, could we?” He rolls off the bed and fishes around in the bag he’s left on the chair in the corner until he finds the small tub and a packet of condoms. He’s still feeling somewhat embarrassed about having come prepared, lucky as its turned out to be. He hadn’t really thought they’d end up here, but hope had sprung eternal, and he’d packed the necessary accoutrements anyway, just in case.  
  
However, when he turns round again, he almost drops them at the sight that meets his eyes. James has pushed a pillow under his hips, and lying there with his legs spread he looks like every fantasy Michael’s ever had, and then some.  
  
“Jesus _fuck_ , James, some warning next time, please.”  
  
But James just grins at him unrepentantly, fixes him with a look, and Michael realises he finally understands the phrase ‘come-to-bed eyes’.  
  
It’s not an invitation he’s likely to refuse.  
  
James’ mouth opens in a silent ‘o’ when Michael presses the first slick finger into him, and Michael can’t help himself when he bends to nip at James’ lower lip again, earning himself a gasp and a small moan.  
  
Michael thinks to himself that he could do this all day, watching and cataloguing James’ reactions as he touches him inside and out, taking James apart piece by piece.  
  
But when James starts pleading he realises that he can’t shatter James just yet. They both want something more.  
  
“Michael, fuck…need you… _please_ , now…”  
  
Michael clearly needs to start a list, he decides as he places himself between James’ thighs. ‘Ways to shut James McAvoy up’ – although he’s going to be making very sure in the future that only _he_ gets to use any of them. James’ babbling cuts off abruptly as Michael slides into him, James opening up and accommodating him in a way that nearly makes him go cross-eyed with arousal, and leaves him hanging on to his restraint by his fingernails.  
  
There’s a moment’s pause as they both catch their breath – well, as much as that’s possible, at any rate – and then Michael bows over James, one hand clutching at James’ thigh and the other searching out James’ own hand where it’s flung out against the sheets.  
  
“James. James, look at me,” he murmurs, and James opens eyes that have fallen shut, whispers “ _Please_ ,” and Michael’s restraint snaps.  
  
He thinks, dimly, that James _had_ asked to be fucked into the mattress, and he certainly doesn’t seem to be complaining about having his request fulfilled. Michael’s still curled over James, and he’s torn between watching James’ face, and watching him touch himself, not quite stroking in time to Michael’s thrusts, the force of them throwing his rhythm out.  
  
“God, want you…” he gasps out, marvelling at how well they fit together.  
  
“You have me,” James tells him, the words broken and fractured with desire and effort. “You _have_ me…”  
  
It’s almost too much. He’s close, so close. But he wants James to, first.  
  
“Come for me, James,” he orders softly, and now he is looking at James’ face again, sees the expression there as James comes, and he _has_ to kiss James again as he follows him over the precipice.  
  
Maybe, he decides – just maybe – this was worth the wait.  
  
*~*~*~*~*  
  
 _Twenty-four hours later…_  
  
The second round of interviews is over and done with, and Michael can’t decide if he’s grateful they’re all finished within a couple of days, or whether he would have preferred them to be spread out a bit more, so he doesn’t feel like his brain’s been put through a blender.  
  
But overall, he’s pleased with how things have gone. And at least he and James had managed to have fun with it all (although, if the rumours are anything to go by, not as much fun as Kevin had been having in his and January’s interviews – Michael’s seen more than one slightly startled-looking interviewer wandering around after finishing with those two), and after all, he can’t exactly deny that seeing James again had been worth _all_ the hard work.  
  
Speaking of…  
  
He turns around just as James is raising a hand to tap him on the arm, startling him.  
  
“How did you know I was there?” James demands, looking faintly ridiculous with hand hovering in mid-air, until he notices and lowers it hastily.  
  
“Saw you reflected in the glass,” Michael replies, gesturing to the glass panels in the door leading to the hotel’s bar.  
  
“Ah.” James’ gaze flicks to the doors, and through them to the bar beyond. “So anyway,” he continues, stepping close enough to rest his hand on Michael’s arm after all, “I was thinking we should finally get around to having that drink.”  
  
Michael looks at his watch. It’s after six. “I think we can do a bit better than that,” he says, angling himself further into James’ space. “How about I take you out to dinner?”  
  
“Dinner would be good,” James agrees. Then, abruptly, his voice turns serious. “Although I think you should know,” he says primly, “I don’t put out on the first date.”  
  
However, he only manages to hold his stern expression for about three seconds before the urge to laugh overtakes him, and he starts giggling.  
  
Michael rolls his eyes and pulls James too him. “Is that so?” he murmurs against James’ lips. “Well, I guess I’ll just have to see if I can change your mind then, won’t I? After all, I seem to recall that you owe me a breakfast date as well…”


End file.
